You taught me to stop
and smell the dandelions,
to value toes-in-wet-grass.

You showed me the beauty
in earthworms,
glory in dirt-under-the-nails.

You remind me to forgive and
to seek forgiveness,
to desire redemption-in-hugs.

You, my girl, showed me love
both fierce and sweet,
the Jesus-loves-me-kind.

The world is better
– I am better –
for nine-years-of-you.

 I don’t know of a time in my life when I wasn’t wondering about something. As a kid I wondered about the man on the moon (I thought he looked like my Uncle Phil). I wondered about worms and birds and rain and the neighbor girl down the road named Bambi (she was an interesting one, that Bambi).

Some days I wondered so much I’d miss things. I’d forget about homework or chores. I neglected to listen during math class. After all, who can pay attention to theorems and yada yada yada when the snow is falling so prettily?

I guess it’s a good thing I ended up being a writer. I mean, it’s my JOB to sit and watch birds in my yard and walk around parks and sniff fallen leaves.

Wonder is part of my job description.

I think that’s one reason I was so geeked when my favorite conference, Breathe Christian Writers Conference decided to make this year’s theme “Awaken Your Wonder”.

YES! A whole weekend to get together with other writers and allow ourselves to soak in wonder. I can’t wait for October 9 and 10 so I can sit and wonder with my friends.

Wondering alone is cool. Wondering with other creative types is phenomenal.

I’d love for you to join us.

If you’re a writer (or have a desire to get started in a writing life) this conference is one you don’t want to miss.

Why not? Here are some reasons…

-Award winning, bestselling author Steven James is our keynote (if you like suspense, you’d like his work).

-More than 25 breakout sessions to choose from on topics ranging from YA literature to songwriting, memoir to writing a proposal, blogging to all things fiction, ideas for starting a writing life to poetry.

-The price is $150 for two days. That includes dinner on Friday and lunch on Saturday, coffee breaks with snacks, a dessert reception on Friday night, and two days of BIG TIME inspiration. A few years ago I went to a conference that I thought was so-so and paid over $600. Breathe is a bargain.

-You’ll make friends with other writers at all different skill levels.

-And so many more benefits

Here’s the thing, if you’re interested in Breathe, you need to act fast. Registration closes next Wednesday (September 30, 2015). Act fast, my friends! Very fast.

Click HERE to register now.

I sure would love to spend a couple days wondering alongside you. Wouldn’t that be the best kind of fun?

Yesterday I got three giant boxes full of books. A man rolled them out to my van on a dolly and hefted them in the back (moving a few misplaced markers first – I’m just glad there weren’t any dirty socks or gross food wrappers).

He then pulled out his razor blade and opened one of the boxes, reaching in and pulling out a copy of A Cup of Dust for me.

“It’s a beautiful cover,” he said.

I stood there, my van door agape and the man with the dolly and razor blade beside me. It was the first real look at Pearl’s story.

I didn’t cry. I wanted to, but the man was so kind I thought he might worry about me if I curled up on the pavement and wept for joy.

I did pet the cover, though. It’s one of the smooth, matte finished covers that I love so very much.

This story is special. They all are. But this one feels special in a bit of a different way. And it’s all because of Pearl.

In Paint Chips and My Mother’s Chamomile I identified with characters in a very personal way. There were some characters that were so very me (even the parts of me I don’t show all that often).

But Pearl Spence is a bit different. She’s spunky the way I wished I could have been as a kid. Adventurous, curious, brave. She’s strong in the way that most Depression Era kids were, particularly those who grew up in the Dust Bowl region.

When I look at pictures of the Dust Bowl and look into the eyes of the children, I see something a little different. (Especially the photography of Dorothea Lange who has always been an inspiration for my writing…and, yes, Dot in Paint Chips was named for her)

Those kids look already-grown-up if you just look at their eyes. They’ve got a strength, determination, grit. There was no victim in them, only surviver.

I know that Pearl is a fictional character, but she’s my attempt to point to those remarkably brave kids who faced down the dust, not willing to let it beat them. She’s a tribute to the courage of anyone from any era who won’t allow adversity to be their end, but use it to refine them, strengthen them.

Through writing Pearl, I came to firmly believe that where you come from isn’t who you are.

And I can’t wait for you to meet her.

Congratulations to Kathi Hanson! She’s the winner of Brenda Yoder’s book Balance, Busyness, and Not Doing It All. Kathi, I’ll get your address to Brenda and she’ll mail your copy soon. 

If memory serves, I started playing basketball in third grade. We practiced every Saturday morning so we would be ready to scrimmage the fourth grade team at halftime during a high school game.

I loved playing. Dribbling and shooting at the hoop and running up and down the court. It was fun. And I remember thinking I was pretty darn good. I mean, I could bounce the ball between my legs and everything. Sometimes I even had enough arm strength to get the ball to the basket.

I had my eyes on the Olympic women’s basketball team. Why not, right? After all, I heard all the time that if I set my mind to it, I could do it. If I tried hard enough, practiced long enough, wanted it deeply enough I could accomplish it.

Uh. No. Not for this girl.

I mean, it worked all through elementary and middle school. I got to play every game only because I hustled in every practice and they had to let everyone play. But then I got to high school. I made the JV team…everybody made the JV team. I sat on the bench for most of the games. I was a 30/30 player. I went in if we were up 30 points or down 30 points because I couldn’t do any damage either way.

I was a bench warmer.

Why?

Because I really wasn’t all that good at the game. It wasn’t for lack of trying, though. I worked hard in every practice, didn’t skimp on the line drills. I’d stay after, working on my jump shots and lay-ups and free throws. I studied the game by watching the pros.

Still, I did not improve for all my effort. It was disheartening.

So I ended my basketball career after my sophomore year. I wanted to focus on my school work, wanted more time with my friends, needed to help out with my grandma.

I’d realized that there are some things that we aren’t able to do, not even with all the hard work and desire. I’m not athletically inclined, much as I’ve tried to make it happen.

But there are things I’m good at. I’ve learned over the years what those things are and I develop those skills. My basketball dreams may have bricked against the backboard of failure, but I’m all right with that now.

Last week my kids asked if I’d go with them and my husband to the park to play basketball. Basically, they wanted me to go shoot hoops with them. Here’s what my kids had to say…

“Wow! Mom! You can really dribble!”

“I didn’t know you could jump!” (I know…laugh it up)

“How do you keep making those baskets!”

“Did you play for the pros?”

And you know what? It felt so good to play. Not worry about form or if I’d make the basket or look like a fool (which I DID!). I was just having fun with my family.

Sometimes that is enough. Right?

A few weeks ago I stood at the kitchen sink, scrubby in hand and a pile of dishes before me that seemed to have been crusted with food particles since the dawn of time. (Note: my dishwasher is old. It rolls across the floor. It cannot remove grunge from plates. Oy).

As I scrubbed, water sloshed on the front of my shirt. That was all it took, all I needed to send me into a full on fluster-fest.

Just trust me. You don’t want to see that.

What exactly was I fluster-festing over? Dishes. Laundry. The family vacation I needed to prepare for. School coming. Overflowing baskets of clothes to be folded and hung up. The weird smell coming from the fridge. A deadline. A book releasing soon and very soon (with many speaking engagements along for the ride)…

You know. Life stuff.

“I can’t do ALL of THIS!” I thought. “There’s just too much!”

Then I proceeded to dig through all the clean laundry for a dry shirt only to realize that none of my clothes were in the land of the clean.

Figures.

Now that I’ve cooled off and I’m looking back at that moment (or hour) I can see how isolated I felt just then. I thought I must be the only mom in the ENTIRE WORLD who can’t manage to hold it all together.

But that’s not true. Not by a mile.

How do I know this? Because, at the perfect time, I read a little book by my good friend Brenda Yoder. It’s called Balance, Busyness and Not Doing It All. Brenda tells story after story about the struggles moms face. It’s like she’s taking the reader’s hand and saying, “Yup. I’ve got that room in my house, too” or “I’ve felt buried in never ending housework, too” or “Uh huh. I feel like an underpaid taxi service, too”.

But, what Brenda does next in her book is unlike most any other mom-blog/book I’ve read. She doesn’t tell you to get it together and make that sink shine like the top of the Chrysler Building before you DARE put your head on your pillow. Nope. Brenda says, it’s okay to NOT do everything.

For People-Pleaser, Golden-Retriever, Must-Make-the-World-Happy Susie, it felt like reading this book pulled a heavy weight off of me. It made me feel okay with serving up dinner on paper plates. Encouraged me to tell my husband how overwhelmed I’ve been feeling. Made me feel all right when I had to say “no” about doing something that would take away from my family and my writing time.

Brenda’s words took away guilt, tossed it out the window, and said “Don’t go out and pick that guilt up. You don’t need it anymore”.

Can I tell you, that’s freedom. That makes the air easier to breathe.

Friends, it’s okay to let some things go in order to obtain balance in life. It is.

Now, I loved this book. I was given a copy so that I could help promote it. Honestly, I would have bought this book anyway. Not just because Brenda is my friend but because I needed it. Big. Time. I know I’m not the only one. 

Brenda has generously offered to give away a copy of this incredible book to one of you! All you need to do is leave a commend down below telling me one area in your life you find hard to keep balanced. It doesn’t have to be a mom thing or even a woman thing. All answers are good answers. I’ll draw the winning name on Monday, September 14, 2015. 

Learn more about Brenda: 

Brenda L. Yoder, LMHC, is an author, speaker, educator and counselor. Her books, Balance, Busyness, and Not Doing It All and Who Do You Say I Am released in 2015. Her ministry, Life Beyond the Picket Fence, can be found at brendayoder.com where she writes about faith, life, and parenting be-yond the storybook image. Brenda’s also a parenting columnist for 10 To 20 Parenting, Choose Now Ministries, and Whatever Girls, She has a mental health col-umn in her local paper, and has been featured in Chicken Soup For The Soul:Reboot Your Life. She was twice awarded the Touchstone Award for teachers.

When Brenda’s not writing, working, or speaking, she’s a wife and mom to four children, ages teen to young adult. You can connect with her on Instagram, Facebook, Pinterest, Periscope (@BeyondPicketFenc) and Twitter.

Hi. Before I get to my Monday blog post, I wanted to make sure you knew about the fun Launch Team I’m putting together for A Cup of Dust. Read more about joining the team (there are no try outs…everybody makes the team) by clicking HERE. Thanks, friends! 

Two weeks from tomorrow I’m going to be a mess. A hot, slobbering, weepy, mascara running mess.

Two weeks from tomorrow I’ll drop my little tiny babies off at school where they’ll be in third grade and first.

Who lets babies be in third and first grade? Who just lets babies hop out of the mini van, brand new crayons in backpacks, to walk into a school full of people and scissors and…and…countless other dangers like multiplication tables and relay races?

But then I look at them and realize how big their feet are, how they are all reading chapter books, how they can all swim and ride bikes and understand mild sarcasm and remember that they aren’t babies anymore.

(cue gagging sobs)

They were once, though. And not all that long ago. My boys turned 7 in June. My girl will be 9 next month. That’s not much space between doesn’t-recognize-their-own-hands to writing-in-sentences-about-all-they-can-do-on-their-own.

Their childhood is chug-chug-chugging down the tracks and I’m just hanging on for dear life and trying to teach them a couple of things along the way.

So, I hope you’ll forgive me if I take the next two weeks off from blogging. I need this time, this focus, to squeeze the last great bits out of summer. I’ll be back on September 9 with my ramblings, Depression Era recipes, A Cup of Dust news and giveaways, etc. I’ll post 3 times a week and will be sure to bring the best I can to you.

Until then, I need to have some fun with my favorite kids on the planet.

I remember late night rides home from Ludington. I was small still and either buckled in up front between my parents or riding backwards in the way back of the station wagon. Lake Michigan was still drying in my hair and its sand filled my pockets and rubbed on my feet inside my socks.

Tired and sunburned and happy, I’d try to drift off to sleep.

Most of my favorite childhood memories are set on the beaches of Lake Michigan, particularly those of Ludington.

My dad drove us home those nights, often singing to us and with us. Gilbert and Sullivan, songs about some cannibal king with a big nose ring, or a man who bought a donut with a nickel that had a hole in it. Silly songs, most of them. Songs I happily stayed awake to sing along to.

But there was one song he sang that made me close my eyes and clench my throat so I wouldn’t cry for its beauty. It was the kind of song that made me miss my grandpa and I didn’t know why. The kind of song that stirred a longing in me for things holy and pure and lovely.

It’s a hymn I don’t remember ever singing in church, although it was in the hymnals which lived in the pews of Calvary United Methodist where I grew up. That was all right. I preferred hearing it in my dad’s baritone, no organ needed.

These days my family goes to Grand Haven. It’s less than an hour from my front door and easy for an evening trip after my husband gets out of work. We drive back in the dark, my kids with Lake Michigan drying in their hair and sand rubbing their feet on the inside of their knock-off Crocs.

As we drive along, I think of my dad singing his silly songs. But more than that, I remember the haunting melody of the Lighthouse Song. The song that has worked its way into my memory and my soul.

Brightly beams our Father’s mercy
From His lighthouse evermore,
But to us, He gives the keeping
Of the lights along the shore

Let the lower lights be burning
Send a beam across the wave!
Some poor fainting, struggling seaman
You may rescue, you may save.

(Let the Lower Lights Be Burning, Philip P. Bliss)

My son is the gatherer of rocks. He walks about our backyard, eyes scanning the ground for rocks of any size, any color.

Finding them, he brings them inside and washes them in the bathroom sink, all the while excited about this treasure and the beauty he finds in them.

Then he brings them to me.

“See?” he says, placing them in the palm of my hand. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

“Yes!”

“Can we put them in the hutch?”

Now, the hutch is in a corner of our living room. It’s where I display treasured items; my grandmother’s old tchotchke, collectables, antique books.

And now various rocks my son finds in my backyard.

So I open the hutch and put the small stones along the edge of a shelf or between delicate tea cups. Last week he gave me his plastic penguin to add to the collection and a small pile of pebbles has gathered at the bird’s feet.

Why am I allowing dull, half broken, plain jane rocks in my collection of beautiful things? Because my son gave them to me.

He is a generous boy. One who asks his brother and sister what they’d like him to buy for them. The problem? He doesn’t value money. Not at all. He loses it and gives it away and refuses to take the dollar or quarter he’s earned doing various chores. He seldom has money to buy anything to give.

So, what does he have? Time and a backyard full of rocks.

Those little rocks have become precious to me.

It makes me think of my dull and half broken efforts that I give to God. I come with a handful of underdeveloped abilities, trying to serve Him as best I can.

He takes my small gifts, the only ones I have to give, and holds them in the palm of His hand. I ask him, timidly and anxious, if He thinks they are beautiful. He tells me that He does. Closing His hand over them, He takes them to the place where he keeps all the beautiful things brought by others who aimed to glorify Him.

My offerings look dingy and small next to the martyr’s sacrifice or the lives devoted to serving the poor. They seem lackluster when put beside the beautiful gift of the missionary. Seeing what I’ve given compared to what others have brought makes me feel little.

But God stands back and looks at His collection, the gifts from His children. I like to think He smiles and feels that warmth in His chest that parents are apt to feel. That glow of love for our kids.

And somehow, beyond reason, my small gifts become every bit as beautiful to Him as everything else in His collection.

Even the smallest of gifts shines with the reflection of His glory.